So, we ended up celebrating the holiday weekend in the children’s portion of Duke Hospital’s ER. My oldest, Elias, broke his arm swinging from some monkey bars on Sunday afternoon. It was a pretty traumatic experience for everyone involved– we’re doing so much better today, but, woah, those first twelve hours were horrible. I spent both Sunday and Monday night crammed next to him in a twin bed, waking up every hour or two to check that his arm was elevated properly so his fingers didn’t swell, and making sure he hadn’t vomited on either of us. By about three or four in the morning, I could hardly get back to sleep. I laid awake and stared at the bottom slats of the top bunk, listening to him breathe. The fear and the sadness had come and gone, and I felt surprisingly grateful. Humbled. I was amazed that something so serious can be so easily fixed, and that humans have come so far in their understanding of medicine and the human body. Like, what an age we live in. I rubbed Eli’s back, and was flooded with gratitude that he was ushered into a place like this:
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